


Just A Little Change

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Snow White - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a Change in Perspective is all that you need to change your whole life. A Harry Potter take on Snow White</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Little Change

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> I now have work available on Amazon. Inexpensive, fun, sexy. Copy/Paste url to view: 
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/Simone-Millien/e/B00E30E6SK/ref=lp_B00E30E6SK_st?qid=1374527786&rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_82%3AB00E30E6SK&sort=price 
> 
> or search under Simone Millien. Also, I'm now taking requests.

The doors we open and close each day, decide the lives we live ~ Flora Whittemore …don’t you know that storybook loves always have a happy ending? ~ The Princess Bride

***+++***

When he was young, Draco used to think he had some control over his life. He’d thought if he demanded and bartered enough (and whined too if it came to that) pretty much anything was at his disposal. It wasn’t fail proof, no. He hadn’t gotten that Firebolt as a second year, and there was that one Christmas where Father had been absolute in his refusal to allow Draco to have a runespoor as a pet.

But on the whole, the big things were covered. Where he went to school, how he spent his summers, who he associated with as friends. Either mother or father always supported his decisions, one or the other would ask him: Draco, what do you think?

He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss that. More than most all else, really. Over the last few years, no one had bothered themselves to ask Draco what he wanted. And now…he didn’t even know where mother and father were. Or for that matter, where he was.

Above him the sun shone brightly, a lot hotter than he was used to Britain being this time of year. So maybe he wasn’t in Britain anymore. He hadn’t the faintest.

And Professor Snape (just Snape, his mind sneered rebelliously) wasn’t being any help, it seemed lately the smallest of things set the man off and Draco would be snapped at for breathing too loudly just as easily as asking questions. It was enough to make a person depressed, it was. Laying here, alone, with the grasshoppers and earthworms for company, Draco couldn’t figure out which was worse, the uncertainty of his future… Or the absolute boredom. Draco hadn’t seen another living soul since he was first brought here -- excepting Snape and the way the man skulked around silent and morose he hardly counted.

At first it was nice to have a reprieve from the terror of sixth year. No cabinets to fix, no questionably sane and improbably old wizards to off, and for the first time in a year the question of whether his parents lived or died wasn’t dependent on his ability to complete a task he wasn’t meant to walk away from. But now, two months of isolation later, the terror had worn off and left boredom in its place.

Currently Draco was occupying himself with his favorite pastime: imagining in full vivid details the first thing he’d eat once this whole cock-up was over. Bread pudding with currants, ambrosius flume, raspberry truffles, pumpkin pasties with the white icing, ice lollies in every flavor including hucklebug twist—

A shadow moved over him and Draco startled as Snape’s voice abruptly interrupted his train of thought.

“Get your things together.”

Draco scrambled to his feet, awkwardly brushing his well-worn robes of stray pieces of grass.

“My things?” Draco repeated.

Snape glowered, already turning back for the house. He probably resented having to come out here and find Draco in the first place. It wasn’t expressly forbidden but Snape was disapproving of Draco traveling anywhere further than a few dozen yards from his sight. It would have almost been flattering if Draco hadn’t been all too aware that Snape’s reasoning had more to do with his dislike of complications than his genuine care for Draco’s well-being. There was a time he wouldn’t have questioned which it was…but that was all before that night.

“It’s time for us to move on,” said Snape.

“Where are we going?” Draco asked. And then simply because he couldn’t help himself, damned if he sounded like a child, “will mother and father be there?”

Snape barely paused, hesitated half a second, less. “No. It would be best for the time being to continue as we have done.”

“But I don’t understand…why are we in hiding? Why can’t I go home?” If his tone was a bit testy, Draco couldn’t help it. Two months of this, two months of the silent treatment, two months of isolation, two months of no word from his parents. Snape’s gait stiffened, and anger (or at least annoyance) was clear in the way he held his shoulders.

“We are not hiding. You are choosing the better part of valor and remaining out of Lord Voldemort’s thoughts for as long as possible.”

“But why? I did what I was supposed to, didn’t I? I let them in, fixed the cabinet. Why can’t I go home? Lord Voldemort won’t care who actually did the killing. The old fool is dead, either way, so wh---” Draco had never been privy to the more painful and physical side of disagreements until he’d gone to Hogwarts. They didn’t handle things that way in his home, and certainly he’d never been hit by an adult. Which is why what happened next caught him completely off guard. Snape’s face drained of all color and his eyes burned cold, his lips pressed tight into a grim little line, and he caught Draco full in the face with the back of his hand. Draco found himself back on the ground, this time on all fours, blinking away the tears that had sprung to his eyes, and wiping away the blood from his lips (where they’d split) with shaky fingers.

“Stupid child,” Snape hissed. “When the Dark Lord asks you to complete a task, a job half done is unacceptable. Your life is forfeit should he so deem, you remain breathing but for the mere fact he’s yet to remember you exist.” Draco couldn’t stop the shaking, couldn’t stop his eyes from watering. He took in a deep breath that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed sob and angrily wiped at his eyes.

“Stay here then, if you know better,” Snape said calmly, coldly. “But decide quickly, I shall be gone in ten.” Then he was striding back toward the house, stiff-backed and proud.

Draco wished hopelessly that for just one moment he could return to his before Hogwarts days, maybe if he’d gone to Durmstrang instead like Father had wanted, maybe if he’d been tutored at home, maybe if he hadn’t been such a gormy little coward...

Then, sniffing, he got carefully back to his feet and followed.

***+++***

On the other side of the country, Harry was having by far his most uneventful summer yet. Dudley stayed out of his way, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were doing their level best to pretend Harry didn’t even exist. And Harry, for his part, stayed in his room, as far away from them as possible.

Most days he didn’t even get out of bed. There was a hole in his stomach, put there by Sirius and cemented over hollow by Dumbledore. Each day it dug a little wider, burrowed through him a little deeper. It was worse than after Sirius; he didn’t have nightmares anymore; he didn’t sleep. He wasn’t grieving this time; he couldn’t. He was too…too livid to be sad.

If they had just listened! All those times he’d said Malfoy was up to something, all those times he told them Snape couldn’t be trusted. Sirius was his fault but he’d tried with Dumbledore. He’d tried so hard all year. And for it to end like that, so senseless, so preventable.

During his worst times he felt nothing, not rage, not pain, not even the curious emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He was numb, and he wondered what was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to do this by himself? What on Earth had Dumbledore been thinking? And overall, through it all, he knew he had to get a hold of it.

There were Horcruxes to find, and Voldemort, that evil bastard was long over due leaving this world. And then beyond that there was Godric’s Hollow, he’d promised himself he’d go there, he’d start there for the answers he needed. And Ron and Hermione, who even now were helping the Weasleys prepare for Bill and Fleur’s wedding; he’d promised he’d be there for that.

But he couldn’t, not like this, not the way his emotions were ratcheting between nothingness and a rage so fierce he felt his very skin vibrating. He was no use to them like this; he was no use to anyone. But more importantly, the thing that kept him hanging on: If he didn’t control himself, if he didn’t come out of this… He’d never get the chance to make Snape pay.

Exactly a month before his seventeenth birthday Harry packed his things to go, fully intending never to return again. If that wasn’t long enough he’d just have to cross his fingers and trust his luck. He set off in the night, no end destination in mind, without leaving a note behind. He doubted the Dursleys would be bothered. It wasn’t really on purpose, but still somehow he wasn’t surprised when he ended up at Hagrid’s.

***+++***

Spinner’s End was a miserable place. Cold, dark, devoid of all life and warmth. No wonder Snape lived here, Draco thought meanly.

“You can’t leave me here!” Snape calmly stocked the cold cupboard full of food, checked the water supply, locked his Potions lab. Not that there was much to be hidden away, as far as Draco could tell the most expensive thing here in this hovel were the leather books that lined every shelf in every room.

“Do you hear me?! I won’t just wait around here useless until you deign to return for me! I’m not some sort of trinket you can just secret away, Professor!” Draco could feel himself beginning to panic. There were so many fears left unsaid. What if it wasn’t as safe here as Professor Snape thought? What if they were found out? What if he didn’t come back? Because he couldn’t, because he died, because Lord Voldemort didn’t allow it… Because he forgot… Snape went on preparing for his departure, calmly, thoroughly ignoring Draco’s protests as if they were never uttered.

“Professor Snape, please. Let me come with you, let me--”

“You’re of age now,” Snape interrupted, hands busy efficiently folding and packing various and seemingly entirely unrelated items into a large duffle. “You’re capable of performing magic legally in my absence. Do try to keep it to a minimum though.”

The last bit was said with a touch of a warning and Draco took it to mean, ‘no magic at all unless the alternative is dying a frozen unseemly death uncurable by Muggle means.’ Draco didn’t even catch the part where he was of age; so much had happened his birthday wasn’t among the most important anymore. Snape looked down at Draco, eyes narrowed and hooked nose pointed fixedly in his direction.

“As I leave the wards will automatically reset themselves. They are keyed to me; I can come and go as I please. However, should anyone else attempt to breach them you will be warned. If that should so happen, do not stay to find out who it is, Draco. Run.”

Draco shivered, his last protest dying on his tongue. And just like that Snape was gone and Draco was alone. He hadn’t even told him how long he’d be gone. Or where he could possibly run to.

***+++***

Harry arrived at the edge of the Forbidden Forest during the late hours of early morning. The cool air floated in mists around his ankles and the clean sharp smell of wild things, heavy foliage, and last night’s rain invaded his nostrils thickly. It was difficult to take any of this in though as he was panting so hard. Harry blinked furiously, heaving in air. He hadn’t really expected it to work. Yes, he’d been able to manage it a couple of times without splinching himself during class but for some reason most of him had really thought it was a fluke. Yet here he was. Harry blinked again and a moment later he was patting himself down, checking for any missing body parts. No, all accounted for. He wondered if he’d be getting a note from the Ministry about Apparating without a license, or if it mattered since he was a couple of weeks away from his 17th birthday. Not that he cared, regardless, when they showed up to escort him to the Weasleys in a few days time and found he was no longer at the Dursleys, he imagined there’d be bigger things to worry about. If he were at all inclined to worry about what the Ministry might say. Tucking his wand away, Harry heaved his bag higher up on his shoulder and plodded his way to Hagrid’s cabin.

***+++***

Draco turned Professor Snape’s last words over and over again in his mind. He had no clue what he should be looking for in the way of warning. Every whistling bird, every itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, every flashing light in the way of passing automobiles or Muggle aeroplanes, made him tense and his heart pound faster and a sweat break out on his brow. He was a nervous wreck. He didn’t dare go outdoors anymore. Most days he didn’t dare leave the secret passage way that led from Snape’s sitting room to the hidden attic, caught there in some terrible limbo. Too scared of being found out, helpless and vulnerable in the open, to explore further in the house than absolutely necessary, but too terrified of missing the warning to lock himself away in that tiny room with windows too high to escape from.

When the warning finally did come it was so obvious Draco couldn’t possibly mistake it, and honestly it was a bit of a relief even floating in that sea of terror as it was. His vision swam before him and a steady buzzing alert played in his ears, his whole being radiated unease, and a sense of violation, and he knew.

Draco grabbed a cloak and swung it around his shoulders, heart thudding madly in his throat, clenched tightly to his wand and lowered himself out the back windows as the front door was broken open. Both feet hit the ground at the same time jarringly, and he scrambled to stay upright, his shoes slipping a little on the wet leaves on the ground beneath him. Through sheer force of will he remained upright. And he ran, he ran faster and harder than he’d ever run before. In his throat, the smell so strong it burned all the way through, Draco breathed the distinct and powerful scent of dirt, sweat, and blood all mixed together.

As if to confirm his worst suspicions, behind him rang the unmistakable sound of howling – not quite yet a wolf, nothing so plain as a man. Draco ran, too scared to stop.

***+++***

Harry made it to Hagrid’s without fanfare and without encountering any other creatures at all, which was the best he could have possibly hoped for. Even with Aragog gone, there were things just as dangerous in the Forbidden Forest. The little cabin, little only in comparison to the looming castle in the distance, was a sight for sore eyes. Harry quickened his step as he approached, mildly surprised to feel the eagerness that coursed through him. He hadn’t known he was still capable of getting excited about anything anymore. And yet, even so, the closer he came, the more visible the fire-damage became, and for a moment Harry was transported back to that night.

He shook it off before it could take hold.

The lights weren’t on but that didn’t mean anything, it was so early in the morning Hagrid was probably asleep. Knocking on the door yielded no response. So Harry jiggled the doorknob, already formulating in his mind what he would do should Hagrid prove not to be in.

He wasn’t going up to the castle, that was for sure. And he definitely wasn’t going back to the Dursleys. So that left— The door swung inwards with a high-pitched squeal and came to a halt wide open. Harry couldn’t be sure who was more surprised, himself or the seven elves that blinked up at him from around their table of cauldron cakes and (if the label on the bottle proved accurate) Firewhiskey. Harry narrowed his eyes and peered further in. In their hands were playing cards.

***+++***

Running turned to fast walking turned to limping turned to shuffling along at a slow but steady rate, pushed forward by will and fear. And when the fear burned off, will alone. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know where he could go. Dumbledore had offered him safe haven once, which was more than anyone else ever had. But Dumbledore was dead now, wasn’t he? The one thing he hadn’t been able to do and it only mattered in the worst ways. Snape didn’t want him. His parents were better off without him. And whatever use the Dark Lord had for him, Draco wanted no part of it. But with His mark seared onto his arm, with the past year’s events hanging over his head, where could he turn for help? He limped and he shuffled, and he kept moving. He kept to the underbrush. Forests and wooden areas, hid beneath trees, transfigured leaves into cups of water, ate berries off of plants and chewed grass. Neither was filling, never mind the taste. After his second day Draco was so desperate for something to silence the gnawing hunger in his belly he didn’t give a rat’s arse about taste. He walked on, hitching painful step after limping stumbling excruciating step. Finally in a fit of desperation he did the one thing that made no sense at all but provided him with a curious sense of hope. He held his wand tightly in his hands, squeezed his eyes shut and clearly enunciated: “Point me, Harry Potter.”

***++***

Harry was equally surprised to realize one of the elves was Dobby. And was that elf, with the rouge plastered in huge haphazard swipes across its little elf cheeks, and the skin tight jumper with the teeny-tiny leather skirt…was that Winky? Harry’s eyes widened impossibly and his bag hit the floor, mouth gaping open. What the bloody fuck was Kreacher doing there with a fag hanging between his lips?!

“Mr. HarryPotterSir,” Dobby squeaked. All the elves dropped from the table, cards disappearing in a pop and bottles of alcohol and pans of cauldron cakes going up in clouds of smoke, leaving behind nothing but Hagrid’s bare wooden table. “We is not expecting you sir.”

There were only six elves now, Kreacher had disappeared too in the confusion of plates and cups and entertainment flying off.

“No I reckon you weren’t,” Harry replied somewhat dryly.

“What is your kindest most noblest most greatness doing here, sir?” Dobby asked. The other elves gathered around behind him silently. Harry wasn’t at all sure who the others were, outside of Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher, he wasn’t on a ‘picking out of a crowd of House-elves by sight’ basis with any other elves.

To be perfectly honest the only way he could tell the other three apart was because Winky was the only elf he knew that was a girl, plus she had that distinct squashed tomato nose. And Dobby had left an indelible impression upon him, trying to “save his life” as it were four years ago.

Kreacher…Kreacher he would never forget. To be perfectly perfectly honest…they all looked rather the same. Huge tennis-ball sized eyes on a round sort of head with huge bat-like ears. Even the littlest one cradled in the arms of another elf that shared its bright hazel eyes and longish features, down to matching upturned noses and square chins. The littlest elf had the last two fingers of its hand in its mouth.

“I was looking for Hagrid,” Harry answered warily.

“Oh yes, yes, of course you is Harry Potter. Why, Dobby is just thinking Harry Potter must be looking for the great Hagrid, Dobby is. There is some bad news though Harry Potter, the great Hagrid is gone on a long trip, he is, sir. We elves is watching his home for him. Taking care of it in the great Hagrid’s absence, we is.” Dobby’s ears fluttered like butterfly wings as he spoke, long fingers twisting and twisting around themselves nervously. “You is more than welcome to stay though, the great Hagrid would demand it, Dobby thinks.”

After a moment’s thought, Harry shrugged and closed the door gently behind him. Why not, where else did he have to go?

***+++***

Draco was good at lots of things. Despite what other more jealous and far less talented, richly gifted, noble, handsome, and masculine individuals might allude. Apparition, however, wasn’t one of them. He’d been too focused on more important things to give it the attention it deserved. And honestly, he preferred flying. There was something freeing about being in the air, trusting your life to your instincts, your broom, and the wind.

This whole destination, determination, degradation (deprivation, delineation..?) stuff was a load of bollocks. And besides, a point me spell was hardly apparating. It was only meant to show due north. You weren’t supposed to get dumped into the pits of the Forbidden Forest, you weren’t meant to be able to locate someone using it, not that he was sure the latter had actually been achieved.

Draco landed on his knees, scraping them both hard on bits of debris so that without looking he knew there would be further holes in his robes, cuts on his legs. He was shaking too hard to check the damage done. He’d fallen in wet leaves and dirt, rocks… Christ, he could smell the distinctive aroma of things gone wild. He’d remember this forest for as long as he lived. All his worst nights happened here. The sound of rustling in the thick foliage behind him got him moving again.

Blindly, with more panic than thought, Draco thrashed his way through undergrowth. He slammed his left shoulder hard into a passing tree and was nearly knocked off balance, caught himself with both hands on the very next thing he could grab, it was too dark to tell what it was, and suddenly a stinging cut across his palms. His limbs wouldn’t coordinate. A steady hum drowned out all other noises in his ears, and tears ran down his face as the wind stung his eyes. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t stop.

Half-starved, beaten but not yet broken, Draco stumbled his way through the forest only hoping he was heading in the right direction. Hoping against hope, harder than he ever dared before, for a sign. Not even salvation, just one …little sign.

When he finally found it, trembling with exhaustion, Draco had never been so glad to see that great brute Hagrid’s cottage, even as parts of him protested that this was entirely too close to Hogwarts. Because, really, where else would Potter go? The first time they’d ever met Potter had been in the company of the giant; it was only fitting he’d be there again. This would be a first meeting of sorts. He never even thought to question if Potter would be there. It was his last chance, his last hope. He could be nowhere else.

When he reached the door, Draco had difficulty making his fist knock. Mostly it was the making a fist part, but certainly the trembling didn’t help. Nausea twisted his stomach and choked him. The door opened. Potter stood on the other side, green eyes narrowed behind spectacles, wild hair surrounding his face in a black halo. Lips pulled into a frown, jaw clenched hard and unforgiving. But his hands were empty… And he didn’t look surprised. Draco’s throat was too dry, too long without actual water and there was only so much aguamenti could do, the human body wasn’t meant to live on magic alone – it was fine to put out a minor fire, great at keeping you from completely dehydrating, but piss-poor at quenching thirst.

“Potter,” he rasped. Dragged the words out of himself with the last vestiges of strength. “I have nowhere else to go.” He didn’t beg, he wouldn’t beg. Silently, Potter regarded him. God, he couldn’t stand here and beg. Not Potter. The silence went on, and Draco found himself folding. Then just when his body had decided for him, pride no match for exhaustion, Harry inclined his head and allowed him in. Draco’s eyes rolled up in his head and he blacked out before he’d managed a step.

***+++***

As it turned out, the other four elves were called Fopsie, Tiddly, Binks, and Neudul. Not for the first time Harry wondered what cruel soul was responsible for naming elves. Maybe it was all part of an elaborate degrading process wherein the elves were traumatized into thinking so poorly of themselves that they would not question the wisdoms of their appointed masters. Anyhow, they all worked for Hogwarts, if it was at all accurate to refer to what the elves did as gainful employment. Outside of Dobby and Winky, none of the other elves really had a choice in the matter. And even then, neither Dobby or Winky had anywhere else to go, though the later would have joyfully returned to her former abusive enslavement. They were outcasts, all seven of them, for different reasons, in different ways. Dobby for wanting a life free of ownership, Winky for the devastation gaining her freedom had caused, Kreacher for being an elf who had betrayed his master.

The other four, from what Harry could gather, were likewise afflicted. Fopsie had gone through twelve different masters prior to Hogwarts. She’d run away from all twelve in her desperation to be reunited with her young daughter Tiddly who’d been thrown away when it was clear her inability to perform magic wasn’t a temporary developmental delay. “Squib” in House-elf was apparently “disposable.” Both clung to each other with a fierceness that Harry couldn’t watch for long, it was too much like… What he imagined a mother’s love should feel like. Made all the worse because Tiddly was fascinated with Harry, would pop around corners and gurgle at him in an English that wasn’t so much pidgin as…well, not English at all. Babbles with huge pleading eyes for emphasis, and one wet fist shaken at him demandingly. Constantly watching him, constantly underfoot. And Fopsie not far off, trailing behind the little elf lovingly, offering Harry a biscuit, a cup of juice, freshly pickled rabbits feet, a blanket of rabbit’s fur, a necklace of rabbit bones [it was shocking how many various items she could conjure from those poor animals] each time he didn’t push the little burbling thing away. And a freakish obsession for checking his forehead for fever which ended in her insisting he’d check hers as well.

“Harry Potter must be having this rabbit’s foot for luck, Fopsie is not wanting Harry Potter to fall down dead with the influenza,” she’d say in one breath, her elf-ling blinking adoringly up at him and clinging to his trouser leg with both little hands wet from recently being extracted from her mouth. In the next breath she’d add, “now Harry Potter can be checking Fopsie. Fopsie’s a goner, isn’t Fopsie, Harry Potter? Tell the truth.”

Binks had never had a master at all, not that he could remember or Harry could tell. He was a young-ish elf, somewhere between Tiddly and Dobby if Harry had to guess, who had the unfortunate tendency to allow the slightest hint of an order send him into fits of anxiety, complete with head-banging, ear-twisting, and teeth-gnashing. Harry had made the mistake of asking if there were any pumpkin pasties left after Binks had eaten the last one, and spent the rest of the evening convincing the small elf that wailing at that high of a pitch was unnecessary and Hagrid’s oven door was really not meant for bashing himself over the head with. Harry didn’t direct any sort of conversation his way anymore.

In the week Harry had been here he’d never managed to figure out how Neudul fit in, the elf blushed bright red whenever Harry was about, his huge blue eyes widened comically and his mouth shut tight. The more he tried to talk to him the worse things became.

Lately, randomly, little things would turn up around the elf. Harry’s own pants, freshly pressed with enough starch that they could stand up and walk about all by themselves without Harry needing to wear them. Immense bouquets of flowers packed with enough pollen that even Harry who up to this point was unaware of any allergies whatsoever got a little sniffy and sneezy, with itchy red eyes to boot. Which was actually less disturbing than Winky with her drinking problem; who when she wasn’t applying herself to the task of getting a bit more pissed than the time before, was busy tarting herself up.

And then there was Dobby. “Dobby and Winky are not being so very different elves,” Dobby would sigh, watching the aforementioned elf despondently. From the kitchen chair, Harry would be able to see that Winky was in the corner again, sobbing silently but dead violent for all the noiselessness. Between each hitch of her shoulders she’d take a gulp out of Hagrid’s whiskey bottles, steadily becoming weepier the more pissed she got. So far she’d drunk half a case of the stuff.

“Dobby and Kreacher neither,” Dobby would add absently. He was always doing that. Dropping that nasty little creature’s name in conversation as if to suggest if Dobby and he were able to move beyond their antagonism then surely Harry could as well. Fat lot of luck that.

“Dobby was always wanting something more. Dobby was always remembering a time before his masters through the whispers of the old elves. Winky and Kreacher…they thought they found it and can’t bear the disappointment. But Dobby was always dreaming. Still dreaming.

“Do you know about dreams, Harry Potter?”

Harry remembered a young boy who imagined his parents would one day magically appear and rescue him. A naïve child who thought maybe just this once life wouldn’t come with a catch.

“I used to.”

In short, what Harry was stuck with was an owl, a dog the size of a little horse, and seven elves that ranged from psychotic narcissistic murderer, alcoholic, stalker, hypochondriac, hyper-anxious, overly infatuated in scary ways, and Dobby who defied categorization. Then there were their poker nights. Yes. The less said about that the better. If it weren’t for the fact that Dursleys filled the Dursley home…he would have thought he was better off where he was. There was nothing in the world that would have sent him back to the Dursleys, not even barking elves slowly driving him mad.

The night Malfoy appeared, Harry was just about immune to surprise. He’d gotten out of the habit of answering the door wand drawn, it only took three weeks and a nearly hexed elf-ling in the form of Tiddly (who had taken up knocking for Harry at odd hours and then running off squealing with laughter) to break him of the habit. Elves worked their own brand of magic, they could Apparate in places where Apparition was strictly forbidden, they could sneak in and out of places where no others were allowed, and apparently if they so chose they could hide a wizard more thoroughly from harm than even the Fidelius charm. Batty as they were, and with the exception of Kreacher who Harry had not seen hide nor tail of since that first night, the other six adored him. They’d assured him he would have nothing to fear while he slept under Hagrid’s roof, in their care. Well, nothing to fear from others at least. Harry’s left arm was still bruised from the flesh-creeping vine Neudel had presented him as a gift two days ago.

So, of course, he wouldn’t have his wand drawn on the very night Draco Malfoy turned up. Habit kept him from drawing it before he opened the door, Malfoy’s haggard appearance kept it pocketed. The other boy looked plainly awful. His eyes were red-rimmed and cheeks flared, feverish (if Fopsie were to see she’d pronounce instant death by overheating), his face was long and drawn, features pinched tight, and his clothes fell around him in tatters. His once tediously groomed hair hung limply around his face, a mess of matts and whurls. But the worst part was how he gingerly pressed a hand against his side and listed to the right as if he couldn’t help it.

“Please,” he gasped raggedly, babbling a flood of words that ran together so swiftly that for a moment he sounded like Tiddly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, Potter, I can’t—I don’t know how I found you but you’re here and I need help. I needed it back then but it was too late and Dumbledore promised I could—there was nothing else I could do he would have killed my parents, he would have killed me, and it was all for nothing anyway I’m still dead. I thought I could do this but I can’t Potter please I don’t want to die I fought too hard for this I don’t want--”

And then just like that before Harry could do much more than shift slightly to the side, he was collapsing to the ground, eyes rolled back in his head. Against his better judgment and honestly listening more to that part of him that glowed faintly with sympathy for Malfoy than anything like sense, Harry called Dobby to help bring him in.

“Oh no HarryPotter! You Musn’t! This Malfoy is a bad Malfoy! HarryPotter can not bring him indoors! Dobby is telling us all about when this Malfoy was Master, No you MUSN”T!”

Harry winced as Binks’ increasingly desperate wails woke the entire house. From beside the fireplace Fang rose his massive head and cocked it in inquiry.

“Is he dead? Is he dying? Does he have the influenza?” Fopsie piped, a lone little voice without a body. It was really disturbing how they did the invisible elf trick. See, this? This was why Harry only spoke to Dobby.

“He needs help, and no one that means me harm can find me here, remember?” Harry said appealingly though he had little hope that he could appeal to their logical sides. All he knew was Malfoy looked frail and …breakable the way he was laying slumped in on himself, and he wasn’t sure what part to grab. Everything was mud covered and filthy, and through the rips of cloth he could see a rainbow pattern of cuts and bruises. 

Dobby silently helped Harry move him to Hagrid’s room cum Harry’s summer room, and lay him on the bed. He calmly rearranged Malfoy as comfortably as possible but his fingers twitched anxiously and Harry knew it was only a matter of will and trust in Harry that kept him from similar wails. From the sitting room came the crash of something heavy. Harry sighed.

“Can you take care of that, Dobby?”

“Dobby will calm the other elves,” Dobby agreed solemnly.

He rushed out of the room and closed the door softly behind him in what could only be relief. Harry briefly wondered what it was like for him; it couldn’t be easy seeing his past life and his current collide. What on earth did he do when Malfoy was a student at Hogwarts?

All wonderings were abruptly wiped from his thoughts at Malfoy’s tiny groan from the bed. Now that he was here, Harry had no idea what to do. He wasn’t Pomfrey, not even Hermione …he didn’t know anything about healing people. First thing, though, would probably be to get all those muddy clothes off him. Harry stood there frozen, looking down at Malfoy spread out on Hagrid’s miles and miles of mattress. Right. He’d just have to remove Malfoy’s clothes. Harry looked over his shoulder hopefully, but no, Dobby hadn’t returned. He was all alone with this one. He could make his way up to the castle…see if Pomfrey was available… But then there would be Professor McGonagall and questions. And she’d called Snape. She’d--- Harry closed his eyes tight for a moment, pressing a finger to his temple to massage away the building headache. And there would be thoughts of Dumbledore and Horcruxes and questions. No. Just. No. Okay. So he’d just have to do this himself.

Or else he could dump Malfoy back on the front step, hope no one came to investigate further when the boy was found and trust that whatever came of it…well, would be out of Harry’s hands. Malfoy’s eyelashes fluttered; his eyes attempting and failing to open as consciousness swam closer to the surface. He shifted slightly and let out another tiny moan, small and breathless. Hopeless. More fear than pain. And wasn’t it a terrible thing that Harry could tell the difference between the two?

He couldn’t leave him out there. He couldn’t just pretend, despite what Malfoy had done, despite the last seven years he couldn’t just-- He didn’t want to think anymore.

Harry braced himself against the edge of the mattress. He needed both hands to pull himself up as Hagrid’s bed was nearly as tall as his chin. He made it up but it was a struggle and he ended up landed on his knees with both hands either side of Malfoy’s head, too close. So close in fact that he could feel puffs of breath on his face, their noses almost touching. Malfoy’s face smoothed some in the peace unconsciousness brought. His eyelashes were golden, there were so many of them, so long they curled but also so light honey-gold that he wouldn’t have noticed at all… Had he not been so close.

Harry’s stomach felt odd. Fluttery and nervous. He pushed himself up onto his haunches and pushed that away too. Quickly and efficiently, Harry pulled at Malfoy’s robes, yanking the rags off and setting them to the side. Malfoy was limp the entire time, loose and compliant in a way he’d never been as long as Harry had known him. It was alarming and he felt his wind kick up, anxiety mixing with the odd feeling, leaving Harry a bit nauseous. When the robes were gone Harry gathered them up and repaired them and cleaned them, one charm cast after the other. Wrists and hands moving quickly and efficiently, eyes categorizing the mess of bruises and scrapes as they appeared one by one into ‘not so bad,’ ‘must be cleaned,’ ‘bandage that later’ without taking in the entirety of the boy spread out before him. Just a collection of bumps and bruises, not one pale mangled Malfoy. Finally there was nothing left for him to do that still allowed him to avoid looking directly at Malfoy. Harry looked down. And Malfoy was naked, except for one thin piece of fabric loosely bunched around his groin, aspiring to be a pair of pants when it grew up but now just a pitiful scrap of material that showed more than it hid. But not even that bothered Harry because Malfoy was thin, the outline of his rib cage waved hello loudly, and his stomach was so concave Harry could have poured a cup of water in there and had it keep. And the bruises. The hurt. He was more than black and blue, he was a rainbow of broken.

And Harry looked down, and he saw Dumbledore. He saw Dumbledore tumbling over the Astronomy tower. He saw Dumbledore with blank eyes and a slack body. He saw night and death and hopelessness and emptiness and Dumbledore who he loved and and respected and admired and ….sometimes hated. Dumbledore. But also Malfoy. The boy he’d seen in the abandoned girl’s loo, sobbing his eyes out, alone. And there, buried beneath the golds and blues and swollen pinks of recent hurts, was one long jagged scar extending from sternum to navel. And Harry saw himself and all the ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s and ‘I could have’s and ‘should have been’s. Harry’s stomach lurched painfully. He tried, he did; he scrambled hand over foot but in the end Hagrid’s bed was too high. Half his breakfast and all of his lunch came back up to greet him, just a friendly how’d you do, until there was nothing left but the dry heaves. Neudul found him there and a small sad frown wrinkled the elf’s brow.

* * *

Life is the stuff that happens when you’re not paying attention. He’d heard that somewhere before. And also, whenever one door closes a window opens. Or some sort of rubbish like that. Someone said those things once. Or maybe he’d heard them on those cheap little fold out inspiration-a-day notes Aunt Petunia used to enjoy reading. Not that she’d suddenly sworn off the stuff, she might still enjoy it for as much as he knew, but he’d never find out again. He was never going back there, he’d never find out because he was never seeing those people again. It was funny how something so trivial as a quote he could barely recall allowed a tendril of sadness to mix with his relief.

“For better or worse they were my family for the last sixteen years, piss poor approximations that they were,” Harry told Malfoy in a low murmur.

“I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised, I was bound to miss something right? Even if the greater part of me is overjoyed to be away from those people. Still you do what you know, right?”

Malfoy’s lay impassive. Breathing steadily, deeply, eyes shut tight and unblinking, completely unresponsive. Harry was pretty sure Malfoy had never been a better houseguest.

“That’s a bit appropriate for my life, the way its going, isn’t it? You do what you know. And I’m positive I’ve heard that one from Aunt Petunia because I remember thinking that it wasn’t a good enough excuse for her to be such a complete bitch.”

Harry took a minute to ponder that, and Malfoy took a minute to breathe. It was almost…calming. This routine they’d fallen into. At first it had been a bit disconcerting, the way Malfoy had so realistically portrayed tortured young boy as Dementor victim. He’d come to (if that was the appropriate term for that feeling he had once his stomach had decided to remain below throat level and the world had kindly stopped spinning) to find Malfoy dressed, healed, and laying comfortably arranged on Hagrid’s bed, head cradled on fluffy pillows, looking perfectly happy and asleep if it wasn’t for the frown lines, the too-thin frame. After establishing that yes Malfoy was indeed still alive, Harry was at a loss for what else he could do.

So. He did this. He sat and he talked and he waited. Harry shifted slightly to relieve the crick in his neck and brushed up against Malfoy’s side, the back of one hand lightly pressing against a firm stomach beneath sheaths of material. His new robes were about ten sizes too large, and made Malfoy look like a little boy playing dress up in his Dad’s throw-aways, but at least they were in one piece and clean.

Dobby must have done it, or one of the other elves. Harry couldn’t say for sure. Everything after trying to unsuccessfully wretch up his lungs until he’d literally gotten light-headed from oxygen deprivation was a bit of a blur. Nearly asphyxiating oneself on imaginary vomit would do that to a bloke. Once the alarm that Malfoy was dead, rolled into alarm that Malfoy was actually literally devoid of soul, and then that too had passed, Harry ran the gauntlet of emotions from fear, helplessness, annoyance, anger, until finally he’d circled back around to concern. Harry knew looks were deceiving, but it was hard to feel anything but stirrings (earthquakes, tsunamis, giant planet moving tribulations) of pity (sympathy, empathy, squishy-motherly-urges to shelter and protect and save) for Malfoy while he was laying there all tiny and vulnerable, dwarfed by Hagrid’s massive bed and still too thin for his own good.

He needed to wake up. And it wasn’t just because Harry had burning questions that needed asking. Yes, he wanted to know where that gutless coward Snape was so he could hunt him down rip out his liver and feed it to him tiny pulverized chunk by tiny pulverized chunk until he begged for mercy the way he’d made— Yes. But mostly he wanted Malfoy to say he was okay, he wanted to hear it from the other boy’s lips. Malfoy was a force, an unholy terror of one yes, but still…he should never seem so small and quiet. There was something about the unnatural stillness that made him frail instead of peaceful and that was a term Harry would never have applied to Malfoy. He even kind of missed the name-calling.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do?” The elf startled and popped out of the room as if it had actually believed that Harry wouldn’t have known it had crept up on him after living with them for over a month. A month of Neudul’s silent watching. Ever since Malfoy had arrived they had become even less pleasant to talk to, wasn’t worth trying really. And Neudul was the strangest of the bunch. Harry returned his attention to the bed-things wrap with Malfoy filling and placed a consoling hand on what Harry hoped was a shin.

“Don’t worry,” Harry awkwardly comforted. “You’ll be okay. Time…er…heals all wounds.” Malfoy turned his head stiffly, strands of blond sliding across the bright white of his pillow as he moved. Harry nearly had a heart attack and jerked his hand back.

“Potter,” Malfoy groaned. His voice was raspy with disuse. “If you don’t shut up with the inane platitudes, I’ll be forced to respect you even less than I already do.”

He rose a hand to his brow and massaged there. Harry could see his fingers were shaking. “And believe me, we’re operating in the negative here.”

“You’re awake,” Harry said.

“God I hope not.” Malfoy really sounded like he meant it, something sad and soft about it. Now that he was properly awake Harry probably shouldn’t still be feeling all soft and mushy too.

“How long?”

“Oh at least until the end of the war, thanks. But if you can manage it, I wouldn’t mind sleeping through the rest of adolescence, maybe a few years into young adulthood.” That said optimistic things about his time frame for the ending of the war. Unless he was rooting for the Death-Eaters to win.

“I mean, how long have you been awake?”

“Just the last few hours, since that strange little mute elf tried to violate my person. You really need better servants, Potter. They are entirely too hands on. Healing spells don’t require direct contact.” Malfoy visibly shuddered but when he looked straight at Harry his expression was all smirk and no disgust so he was probably having him on. With Neudul though…there was no telling.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Had to figure out where I was first, didn’t I?” Malfoy had gone whisper soft again, hoarse and raspy and not the upbeat chirp he’d been when talking about Neudul. The next moment it switched again, and Harry found himself intrigued with the constant emotive acrobatics. It reminded him of fifth year without the rages, and he wondered if that’s how Malfoy felt …helpless, out of control, betrayed. By everyone. If so, he was handling it a lot better than Harry had himself. Maybe he’d gotten all the evil out of his system during the other fifteen years he’d been a little shit. So there was nothing left for a rage.

“I heard everything, by the by,” Malfoy announced brightly. “Oh, and yes, I am naturally this blond.”

The whole time they were speaking Harry was subtly making his way to the floor and hoping Malfoy hadn’t noticed how closely he’d been sitting, but given that Hagrid’s bed was two-people lengths above the ground there was really no subtle way of jumping down unnoticed. He lost all attempt now and slid down, thumping hard to his feet indignantly.

“I never asked that!”

“Not in so many words, no,” Malfoy agreed. “You know you wanted to though, perv. You and your little elf. Like Master like Servant, that’s what I always --” Malfoy cut himself off, jaws audibly snapping together, with such a gutted expression it was clear he would give his left arm to call back his last words. And probably to take the Death-Eater mark that was branded into his skin along with them.

The words “you would know all about a master-servant relationship” hovered on the tip of Harry’s tongue, so present he could feel the weight of them. But he couldn’t. They stuck there until they dissolved. Harry surprised himself with the knowledge that he didn’t want to snap at this Malfoy. Not this frail, wilted boy, with all of Malfoy’s tongue but none of his bite. He didn’t want to …he didn’t want to hurt him. And that? Was entirely unreasonable. There was feeling sorry for and then there was personalizing, and Malfoy wasn’t Harry. He had to remember that. Malfoy was an evil little git that let Death-Eaters into a school full of children. Malfoy was a Death-Eater. It didn’t matter that he was also a sixteen year old boy, scared senseless, with no one else to trust. It didn’t matter, Dumbledore was still dead.

“Now that you’re awake,” Harry bit, “I don’t trust you not to kill me in my sleep. You’ll have to find somewhere else to be.”

Malfoy blinked at him, eyes widening fractionally. On anyone else Harry would say the look on his face was confused hurt. But this was Malfoy. Last year he broke Harry’s nose. He called Hermione names, he poisoned Ron, he’d controlled one girl and nearly killed another, and he thought all Muggleborn should die, he supported a lunatic. He tried to kill Dumbledore. He made it possible for Snape to do it instead. There was nothing to pity, there was no reason to want to help him. Harry had to just keep remembering that, when the rest of him wouldn’t cooperate because it had some sort of obsessive need to protect the frail and vulnerable.

“You do know,” Malfoy drawled. And Harry had to give it to him, he rallied back well. “Theoretically speaking, of course, you wouldn’t actually need to be sleeping for me to kill you.”

Harry felt himself go still. He must’ve realized how that sounded on the tail-end of Dumbledore’s death. He must’ve known what Harry would think. No, he hadn’t needed to sneak up on Dumbledore, had he? He didn’t need him asleep then. Malfoy winced and attempted to sit up in bed.

“That was only theoretically, Potter,” he said weakly.

“Out,” Harry said fiercely.

“I didn’t mean it! I don’t know why my mouth keeps running away with itself but I didn’t mean that, Potter.” He tried again but his arm muscles wouldn’t keep him up, his forearms trembled and he could get no further than his neck straining to raise his head.

“I don’t care! GET OUT!” “I have nowhere else to go! I can barely even move!”

“THAT’S NOT MY PROBLEM!” Malfoy shot him a dirty glare and rolled over onto his side, yanking the covers up and over his head as he went. Harry stared at his unmoving back at a loss for what to do and felt all the anger drain. It was even harder being mad at him when he was curled into a little ball and literally shaking.

Harry climbed back on the bed though he didn’t know what he intended. He was pulled closer, urged forward, but he didn’t know how to fix this. Despite his better sense somehow his hand was reaching out and placing itself gently on Malfoy’s back. He could feel the muscles quivering beneath his palm, the gasps the other boy was trying to suppress ran up Harry’s fingers and down his spine. They stayed there like that in silence, until the gentle pressure turned into a caress. From under the covers, Malfoy’s voice came subdued and muffled. Harry could feel the words in his fingers and somehow that made them clearer.

“You think I want to be here? With you? You think this is all my idea of a laugh? Crawling to you, Perfect Potter, on my belly for your help? After everything? Do you really think I’d be here if I had any other choice?”

He shifted, rolled until he was no longer obscured by yards and yards of fabric. Until those clear grey eyes were looking at him again, forthright and honest and pleading without begging, in ways Harry had never seen of Malfoy. In ways that just didn’t compute. Harry’s hand made the journey with him and now it was lying gently across Malfoy’s hip.

“If you send me back out there, Potter, you’re sending me to my death.” “You’re a Death-Eater,” Harry denied, but most of his protest had already faded.

“You’re happy to be one.”

“I was. I was stupid. I didn’t know what it meant, I didn’t know what it would mean."

“You’re only here because Voldemort would kill you otherwise. I can’t trust that.”

“He might not. He might find some other use. If I go back he might be appeased by my performance.”

“You just said you’d be dead.”

“If I go back he’ll either kill me outright or turn me into one of them.” Draco’s eyes closed and now the disgusted shudder was completely involuntary and entirely real. “Another Fenrir, or Amycus, or Goyle. My father or my aunt or my best friends’ dads. He’ll make me do what they do…and I can’t. I won’t. Either way I’m dead.”

“We hate each other.” His eyes opened again, fluttered, and there were those honey-gold lashes.

“This doesn’t feel like hate. I know hate now, I’ve felt the real thing.”

“We don’t like each other.”

“We don’t like who we were. I know I’m not the same person I was beginning of sixth year, you don’t feel the same either.” Harry was quiet because he was right. They weren’t the same. The fight had gone out of the both of them. Harry didn’t have the energy to care, didn’t give a damn if Malfoy was really here to kill him or turn him over, he couldn’t find the will. And Malfoy looked three years of sleep and full meals from being able to knock a feather down. Malfoy sighed long and huge, with effort he placed his own hand on top of Harry’s. It looked strange there, all pale in contrast to Harry’s own tanned skin, long and tapered to Harry’s square fingers.

“Potter, I’m not asking you to marry me, I just need you to let me stay here. Please.”

Harry withdrew, and it felt even stranger -- their hands slipping past each other warm and soft. He climbed down.

“I can’t make any promises for when Hagrid returns. But until then, you can do what you like.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said softly.

* * *

Potter wasn’t anything like Draco had expected. Six years together and he was just now noticing. Draco wasn’t sure how that happens, but probably it was something along the lines of never noticing your father wasn’t exactly infallible. Like Potter said, you see what you want to believe. Or what you know, or something like that. They worked. And he would have never expected that. He was quiet and shy where Draco had thought loud and boisterous. He hated his hair, where Draco had once thought he deliberately tried to make it look like that rat’s nest of tangles because he thought it was cool. He honestly cared about everything. Even if he was oblivious as a deaf dumb and mute carrot-stick.

He couldn’t name all the students in his own house in his own year without thinking way too hard for someone who had lived with the same group for six years of his life, but he’d give his life for any one of them. He was funny when he wasn’t too self-conscious to breathe, and he was smarter than anyone gave him credit for (especially considering his painfully average marks).

He didn’t know what to do with a compliment and sucked arse at communicating when he was exhausted, or knowing when he was exhausted. He was everything Draco hated on paper, and had done for six years, but in ways he couldn’t help but like in person.

If only he wasn’t also so fucking gorgeous as well. The scar wasn’t nearly enough of a disfigurement to combat those eyes, and the way his jaw would clench when he was frustrated, or how the slightest of dimples winked when he smirked, or how his chest broadened further with each month hard and barrel-chested, and Christ the way his thighs and arse looked in Muggle denims.

It wasn’t fair. Draco was maybe possibly perhaps getting the slightest of crushes. It terrified him. They’d taken to eating all their meals together, reading in the evenings together -- Draco on his end of the sofa, Potter tucked away in the giant’s over-large armchair in the corner knees to chest and book balanced precariously on knobbly knee-caps, sleeping together on the opposite sides of the huge ocean of Hagrid’s bed. And Potter was constantly touching him, that first night with the hand on his back rubbing circles, then burning across his skin as the giant’s old robe scratched and dragged when he’d rolled over with Potter’s hand following to cup his hip.

And after, pressing cold fingertips to the nape of his neck and laughing about his pulse (That was cold, Malfoy. Sure you have a heart?); shoulder bumping against shoulder as they passed each other in the kitchen working together to make every meal; the firm press of a calf across Draco’s shin during meals; the awareness of him pulsating as hips bumped while they cleaned; a hand pushing Draco’s hair out of his face now there was nothing to help it stay there. It wasn’t doing much to dissuade him from the unsettling feeling of a field of butterflies fluttering in his stomach and the ridiculous leaping of his heart in his chest.

At this point, Draco feared Potter could fart the ‘bells of St. Ives’ and Draco would fall that bit deeper because flatulence proved Potter was adorably real. It was absolutely revolting. He needed a distraction; he’d been in this house with just Potter for too long…it felt too much as if the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Let’s do something,” Draco announced. Potter jumped and the book fell off his lap, tumbling to the ground with a thump, Potter tumbled after it in the process of trying to retrieve it. Draco couldn’t help the smirk, crush or no Potter was a klutz. He didn’t know how he managed so well in the air.

“We’ve been cooped up here for weeks, let’s do something.”

“What would you suggest,” Potter asked dryly.

“A trip down to Hogsmeade, perhaps? A nice picnic at the Ministry? Ice cream floats at the Hogs Head?”

“Why, Potter, how droll of you.”

Potter smiled, and the god damned heavens opened. Draco was embarrassingly close to embarrassing himself. Which was double the embarrassment. He wasn’t sure which would be more devastating, an inappropriate erection, or blurting his feelings.

“What we really need to be thinking about is what we’re going to do with you.” Oh Christ. Potter, not with the innuendo. Somehow Draco managed not to swallow his own tongue, but that was as far as his eloquence went.

“Summer is nearly over,” Potter continued oblivious. “Hagrid’s not going to stay gone forever, and I have things I need to do.”

Immediately Potter looked abashed and glanced at Draco with a little wince, as if he hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Draco was feeling just generous enough to overlook it; he’d done the same in the not so distant past and let his mouth work without his brain. Besides depressed and aggravated were not good bedfellows. For the past few weeks he had been trying to forget that this wasn’t going to last, that somewhere out there his Mother and Father were out of his reach, better off without him as a distraction (a weapon against them). Without the sanctuary here…he had nothing. He could find Snape again, but what good was that? Last time Fenrir had nearly hunted him down despite Snape. Potter took his silence as condemnation; Draco was brought back with a loud fake cough to see a fidgeting Potter running his hands nervously through his hair. It probably wouldn’t look such a disaster if only he could crib that nervous habit.

“I wasn’t sure how to bring this up,” Potter said in fits and starts, “but…I’m sorry for the…you know.” No. Draco did not know. He let his eyebrows speak for him.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know what it would do. Which is really no excuse.”

“Not a bad one considering it’s mine too,” Draco said, feeling as he’d missed the plot somewhere. “But what are you rambling on about, Potter?”

“The er…scar. The one on your chest. I’m sorry. About the time in the bathroom. I didn’t--- I’m sorry.” Potter blushed crimson red up to the tips of his ears. It was fucking adorable.

“Well, it’s not okay,” Draco said, because crush or no he was scarred for life. “But I guess it’s forgivable given that I was trying to Cruciate you at the time.”

“Cruciate?”

Draco raised one eyebrow. “You have a better term?”

Potter grinned. “Let’s go riding.”

“What?”

“You want to do something, let’s go riding. It’s the closest we can get to traveling by broom while we’re in hiding.”

“And what are these mysterious invisible steeds, Thestrals? I’ve been here for ages and haven’t heard, smelled, or seen hide nor tail of them.”

Potter shifted guiltily but his eyes sparkled and the grin didn’t let up. Draco was going to die from that dimple. Then he realized what the sparkle meant.

“Oh fuck! Potter, I was joking!”

The grin widened and Harry said wryly, “they’re harmless really.” It sounded like the start of every unfortunate Care of Magical Creatures class he’d ever had. Draco was not inspired with confidence; the git knew it.

“Not on your life, I’ll sooner expire from boredom than ride one of those monstrous beasts! And that’s final!”

* * *

Two hours later found them on the edge of the Forbidden Forest with two large lump- shaped mysterious meat-offerings from Hagrid’s special food cupboard. Draco had made Harry carry them both himself. But considering the other boy had tagged along at all, Harry considered it a win. Standing there, waiting for the scent of fresh blood to entice a great dragon-winged “death omen” into appearing, shoulder to shoulder with Draco Malfoy, Harry idly considered how strange life had become. Two months ago he couldn’t have imagined this, now calling Draco, “Malfoy” felt wrong. Something else that felt wrong: Draco was silent beside him, in the last couple of weeks Harry had realized Draco was never silent. He talked non-stop from dawn until dusk, and sometimes while he was asleep he muttered. Mostly nonsensical things, but once there was an, “I’m sorry mum.” Harry had felt his heart break.

Harry placed the carrion on the ground a few steps in front of them then rejoined Draco.

“You’re really scared,” he observed softly.

Draco scoffed, tossing his head a little. The sun made his platinum locks shimmer.

“Bite your lying tongue. Malfoys fear nothing.”

Harry put his hand over Draco’s chest, two fingers left of center, palm down.

“Your heart is knocking against your ribcage, and you’re winded from just standing here,” he whispered.

Draco’s heart hammered between them, but for a moment he stopped breathing altogether. Then it was whooshing out and his words were so hoarse Harry had to move closer to hear them.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry found himself tracing the gentle curve of Draco’s cheek with his eyes, the line of his throat as it disappeared into the vee of Hagrid’s old robe.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he whispered back, finding himself returning to Draco’s eyes. They’d darkened, midnight blue instead of silver. His lips had parted, despite the heat they always looked so soft…never chapped and cracking like Harry’s own. Draco’s eyes were fluttering shut when Harry felt the puff of stale breath on the back of his neck.

Spinning around he found a Thestral there, regarding them curiously. Draco let out a squeak. An actual literal squeak, like a little frightened kitten. Harry couldn’t help the smile though he knew he’d pay for it later.

“Fuck, Potter, that’s huge,” Draco said. “And ugly.”

The Thestral snorted and flapped its gigantic wings, hard enough to send both their hair up in the back draft.

“You know, I think your biggest problem with Care of Magical Creatures isn’t so much the animals themselves, but your mouth,” Harry said dryly. “You might not want to insult the three ton dragon-beast that drinks blood and can tear us limb from limb without a second thought.”

The sound that came from Draco that time was the fluffy cuter younger cousin to his previous squeak.

“I’m not getting on that.”

The Thestral shook its massive head and shivered down its body like the horse it vaguely resembled, if far more skeletal and leathery. It stomped its front hooves and Harry doubted it was any keener on the idea of Draco riding it than Draco. Not really unexpected, but Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed anyway. He’d wanted to do something nice for him, he’d wanted… He didn’t know what they were going to do once the summer ended, he didn’t know how Draco was going to survive this, he didn’t know how he was going to survive this. He just wanted one day. Harry stood behind him and aligned their bodies, Draco jumped and tried to step away before realizing forward was closer to the Thestral (which was now examining the meat-lumps they’d left) and scooting back into Harry.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, they don’t attack unless provoked. Try not to provoke him.”

“Oh, really? Feeling less and less worried, Potter,” Draco said sarcastically. He leaned into Harry anyway. “Thanks for that.”

“Relax,” Harry advised, smiling. He pulled Draco closer, placing his head in the nook of his neck and pressing their hips together, back to chest. He hadn’t realized they were the same height until just now. It wasn’t natural that Draco’s hair smelled so good, they used the same shampoo. With his right hand Harry grasped Draco’s own and beckoned the Thestral closer. He tried to escape again and nearly made it this time but Harry let his other arm wrap around Draco’s waist and reeled him back in. The huge animal approached and Harry could feel Draco lock his knees to keep from bolting. He was so brave; too bad he didn’t know it had nothing to do with not feeling fear.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. The Thestral stopped inches away from them and extended its head, muzzle down. Harry let their fingers twine together and brought both their hands up to gently rub down its face. Draco never stopped gasping, but he didn’t pull away either.

“The first time I saw one,” Harry said, “was after Sirius. You can only see them after you’ve seen someone die. You can see them now too, something else we share.”

The animal was surprisingly soft, beautiful in its own grotesque way, much like death itself. Their hands caressed down the animal’s face, base of forelock to top of its large velvet nostrils. As time went on, Draco’s fingers lost their rigidity and began to caress all by themselves.

“I’m so sorry about Professor Dumbledore, Harry,” Draco whispered.

“I should’ve done something,” Harry said and felt his heart lurch, this time letting Draco be the one that pulled their hands up and down the winged horse’s pelt. “I should’ve been faster, I should’ve known better, I should’ve--”

“Should’ve should’ve. Stop it, Harry. It’s over. It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing you could’ve done because that time’s already gone.”

“Sometimes I hate him,” Harry whispered into his hair. “For leaving me with this. For making me watch. Is that horrible?”

“No. It is what it is. Sometimes I hate the world for being unfair. We shouldn’t have to make these decisions. I’m so tired of them.”

Harry nodded. So tired. “Sometimes I wish I’d never been born,” he whispered soft and quiet, his secret shame breathed into being, from his mouth straight to Draco’s ear never to be heard by another living soul. Not even the Thestral. Draco swallowed hard. He could hear him. Their hands didn’t stop moving together.

“Sometimes I’m so glad you were.”

Harry thought to himself that if the world was fairer one day he’d take Draco for a ride on a real horse. They stayed there until the Thestral got bored and left again, meal complete. On the way back to Hagrid’s they saw the back of Neudul. Harry had almost forgotten the elves were there. Ever since Draco had arrived they didn’t show themselves much anymore.

* * *

The next morning should’ve been awkward but it wasn’t. They ate breakfast together, they worked in Hagrid’s makeshift garden, the one he kept for his vegetarian creatures. After Harry took his cloak and Dobby and went into town for supplies. He would have asked Draco to come along but the other boy looked like he needed the time for himself. He could have just let Dobby go, but he needed some time to himself as well, and it was hard to be had in a one bedroom cabin no matter how large. And honestly…he was a little terrified that any moment now he’d be found. They were going to have to figure something out before the end of the summer, Draco had become a friend -- as insane as that was. He couldn’t just leave him now. He couldn’t let him pay for crimes that shouldn’t have been available for him to commit. When he returned, the cabin was silent of the chatter he’d come to associate with Draco. He could talk to inanimate objects, incessantly.

In its place, Neudul, the elf that spoke in blushes was actually talking. No. Hysterically babbling and flying around the cabin like a mad thing.

“HarryPotter must be coming quick! He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named was being here and has put the Malfoy in deep sleep! HarryPotter must be helping!”

Harry had felt his heart drop out of his chest on several occasions, he’d felt himself on the verge of a panic attack, he’d literally been so terrified for someone else that he’d wanted to piss himself, but never had he wanted to do all of the above and more at the same time.

It was only the elf’s constant imploring to “Come Come!” that made his feet move him, allowed his arms to drop the packages he’d brought, kept him awake and alert as possible. He found Draco on Hagrid’s bed, arranged against the pillows much the way he’d found him that first night. Not as thin, not as frail, but utterly silent. Sleeping that deep heavy sleep that wasn’t rest, but instead something frightening.

“HarryPotter must be laying with DracoMalfoy, sir,” Neudul said from the threshold. “It is the only way. The Evil-You-Know-Who-and-What has put the poor Malfoy boy into evil curse. To break this curse requires intimate relations. HarryPotter Please It is the only way to wake him.”

“But he’s..he’s asleep. Like before,” Harry said dumbly.

“Yes. Yes. And he won’t be waking until Mr. HarryPotter breaks the curse.”

“Where’s everyone else? What happened? How—“

“No! Mr. HarryPotter there is being no time! You must be helping the Malfoy before too late it is!”

“I have to…” Harry couldn’t understand this. They were fine this morning, things were fine. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

“You must be having intimate relations with the Malfoy.”

“Intim..like…sharing things with…”

“You must be sleeping with him,” Neudul said matter factly.

“Sleeping.”

“You must be having penetrative sexual relations with the Malfoy. Making love, shagging, fucking, doing the—“

“Okay. Please stop. I get it. I just--” He was going to throw up. He was going to pass out. He was going to do both, and when he came to Draco would still be there silent and still and he’d still have to figure out what the fuck just happened and Neudul would be screaming shrilly and he couldn’t do this he couldn’t think he couldn’t –

“I can’t. He’s not aware, it’d be like raping—“

“No. The Malfoy would want it. Neudul is seeing how he looks at you.”

If ever a formerly mute elf could sound sly, Neudul was it.

“He can’t give consent, I can’t take that from him.”

“It is being the only way! If Harry Potter does not, then the Malfoy will die,” Neudul wailed.

“Die? I thought you said he’d stay asleep.”

“To sleep forever is death, HarryPotter. The living death! You Must!”

From there Harry feared he blanked out and sometime between his last breath and checking back in Neudul had decided it would be a fine idea to smack his head against the wall between each ‘You Must’ in a sickening rhythm. Harry definitely couldn’t do this with all that racket. He didn’t know if he could do this at all, but definitely not with Neudul there.

“Get out. I can’t do this with you here.”

Neudul left. All was silent.

* * *

Harry didn’t know much about sex, he’d be the first to admit that if he really had to. Ginny was his only real girlfriend, and last year he’d been a bit preoccupied with other things to get around to shagging. His only experiences with the subject happened second-hand in the boys’ dorm with the other boys over-sharing what their first times had been like (forgetting that one disturbing time two summers ago when he’d accidentally walked in on Duddley wanking over a lifted copy of a swimsuit calendar).

And most of that was probably lies to begin with and exaggeration to end. For example, when Ron had lost his virginity to “Lav Lav” he’d been a self-proclaimed sex stud for a year prior. No one talked to him about sex. Aunt Petunia had once vaguely told him to keep it in his trousers, they didn’t need any more freaks in their future, but that was hardly a safe sex advert. So no, Harry didn’t know much about sex. The furthest he’d gotten with a girl was a few kisses with tongue. But as ignorant as he was to sex in general, the amount of knowledge he’d acquired about gay sex paled in comparison. He knew arses were involved, and cocks up arses. But he couldn’t have said how those cocks got up those arses when arse-holes were the size of fucking lemon drops. Further. Despite what Neudul said, Draco was still asleep.

He couldn’t do that to him.

But could he let him lay there like that forever? Neither alive nor dead? The impersonation of soul-sucked again? And Christ how disgusting was he that his cock was getting all stiff already just from the thought of sex. The thought of sex with Draco.

Harry climbed up on the bed and lay beside him like he’d done a million times before. He could barely tell Draco was breathing, he had to really look for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, had to peel his robe back so he could watch it. His skin was so smooth. The pale expanse of his chest was hairless, marred only by the scar Harry had given him, and that was Harry’s cross to bear. Not Draco’s. His nipples stiffened in the cool air, little perfect pink nubs. Harry wanted to kiss them. He’d wanted to put his tongue on them ever since that night Draco had first gone to sleep shirtless. Neudul had seen the way Draco looked at him. Harry had seen it too but he hadn’t been sure. He didn’t know what it looked like when a boy liked another boy.

He hadn’t known what it looked like when Ginny had liked him. But was that enough? And if he didn’t and he waited until Hagrid came back, who would protect him then? There was no one to go to, no one that would help them without turning Draco in. No one that knew Draco like Harry knew him. Draco moaned quietly in his sleep, nothing more than a soft puff of air escaping between his lips. And Harry thought about what they would do to him if they found him. No one would bother with looking for a cure.

Voldemort had been the one to do this to him, that side of things weren’t going to be helping him out -- he’d have to find out from Neudul just what had happened in detail. But not now, now he was going to be grateful that this was a piece of saving Harry could do.

His cock pressed against the material of his trousers pushing it aside as it stiffened stick-hard, knocked against his belly.

Okay.

He was going to do this.

Now he just had to figure out how to make this work, and hope Neudul was right and Draco would one day forgive him. Harry sat there for what seemed like hours but given the insistent throb at his groin could have been in reality only minutes.

The first thing he knew was that sex required nakedness. He could do that, and maybe instinct would carry him through the rest. People did this every day, virgins did this everyday it couldn’t be too hard. Harry snorted at himself self-consciously and ran a hand through his hair. The thought that Draco would have smacked him on the knuckles for that and said: “Stop that barbarian. Do you want to look like something the kneezle hacks up?” decided things for him.

Harry pulled off his own clothes first, if he was going to do this he wasn’t going to make Draco be the one all naked and vulnerable first. Then it was Draco’s turn, which was no big deal, he’d seen the other boy down to his pants before. He’d stripped him down to his pants before. That was nothing. The removing the pants part though… Harry’s knuckles brushed against Draco’s soft belly as he reached for him, and Draco shivered, sucked in his stomach until it was concave again like the first time they’d done this. Only, then, it was because Draco had lost too much weight. Now it was in response to Harry’s touch. Harry became distracted as the muscles there relaxed again, fluttering against the back of his hand. He drew a single finger from the base of his rib cage down to his navel, followed the little dip of his belly button around with a thumb. Gently. The muscles flexed and fluttered and Draco’s air picked up.

Harry crouched beside him because it was awkward trying to touch him while keeping his hips tilted away, at least if he was sitting, knees bent in such a way that they pointed to opposite sides of the room in the lotus position, then it wasn’t hard to keep his penis from rubbing against Draco. He was going to figure this out but he couldn’t with the distraction of humping against Draco’s thigh. That didn’t work though, sitting like this his cock was an arrow point at Draco, dripping pre-come like a tap turned on to trickle. Okay, so maybe he didn’t need to be laying down. Maybe he needed to be on top of him. Sex happened when someone was on top, right? But first, the pants.

Harry gripped the sides of Draco’s crisp white pants and yanked them off quickly, over hips and down thighs. His fingers grazed Draco’s arse as he went, feeling the firm swell of each cheek as it melted into the smooth lengths of each of Draco’s thighs, then down over the curves of his calves, past his heels and the arches of his feet. Draco moved with it unresisting. Then they were both bare.

Draco was beautiful.

Gorgeous.

A word not invented for the pure masculine beauty he had in every line of his body. From sternum to knees, throat to toes. Harry couldn’t help himself, he let his hands play over the exposed skin. He hadn’t known blokes had curves like these, he hadn’t ever looked before, not on himself or anyone else. From the rounded tops of his shoulders to the trim fit of his waist that expanded to the gorgeous lines of his hips. He was soft and smooth everywhere and as Harry touched, his skin flushed a gentle healthy rose. From a nest of thick golden blond curls, Draco’s penis slowly lengthened. It was long and thick and as fit as the rest of him, if one could call a cock that. The head peaked from beneath his hood as it filled, revealing a red tip already wet and spitting a slow and infrequent flow of pre-come from its slit.

Harry wondered what he was dreaming, wondered maybe if Draco was dreaming of him. He watched a little longer but didn’t touch there, couldn’t bring himself to yet, then slid them both under the covers together because that was probably politer than just… going at him without any shelter from potential prying eyes.

He pressed their bodies together by climbing on top. His mouth felt dry and his lips naturally landed at the base of Draco’s throat. He hoped he wasn’t too heavy. He hoped he didn’t mess this up, he hoped Draco would think waking him was worth shagging him like this.

Fuck, Harry was still going to vomit, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this, his penis was so hard.

Harry moved over, pressing his legs between Draco’s own to spread them and hitting against Draco’s cock as he went.

Draco undulated.

There was really no other word for it, his entire body rolled with Harry and a moan was released from his now open mouth. And really what was Harry supposed to do? His mouth was right there, his lips were right there, and he’d wanted to know what they tasted like for so long.

Apples as it turned out.

This kiss was very wet, their tongues tangled together, Draco’s own moving against Harry’s though his eyes were still shut tight in cursed sleep. Hot, slick, wet. Their mouths slid slickly together and when Harry pulled back, Draco followed, his mouth searching for him, tongue extending in offer. Harry leaned back down and recaptured it, he couldn’t leave it there looking lonely and bereft --- Draco’s legs spread wider all by themselves and his hips pumped up.

Harry groaned deep and guttural and helped him. They wriggled until their cocks lay trapped between both their stomachs, pressing against each other on all sides. Draco’s gasps came like permission, the thrust of his pelvis a ‘yes’ and the drip of their pre-come mixing together and making everything glide that much smoother a ‘more.’ And Harry wasn’t thinking any more, not about how he was going to make this work, not about whether it was right or worth it, not about Voldemort, not about the Ministry. Nothing. There was only Draco beneath him, and their mouths locked together. And then he was kissing his way across Draco’s jaw and Draco was arching up into him as he made his way down the bared throat.

He licked the dip of Draco’s collarbone, got lost there, biting red marks into the pale skin. His own eyes couldn’t decide whether to stay open and capture everything on offer…or slam shut and bask in the sensation of his body wrapped in Draco. When he finally found his way to those nipples, both of Draco’s hands had buried themselves in his hair. As he sucked first one and then the other into his mouth, Draco was releasing small cries on every breath, and his penis was as hard as Harry’s own. The hands had clenched into fists but they never pulled too hard, they just let a gentle pressure keep his head nursing at Draco’s tit. Tongue circling, teeth gently biting down and raising the stiff peaks into red swollen flesh. He sucked them hard one after the other, then let his tongue lave them soft and supple again. He only let go when Draco’s hips were going so fast that his cock was pumping out pre-come like water and Harry was in real danger of shooting too soon.

He slid all the way down Draco’s body to the source of all that liquid, Draco’s hands let go immediately to slam down on Harry’s shoulders and his thighs tried to press open even further. Harry was past thought. He buried his nose in Draco’s curls, rubbed his face across Draco’s hard shaft like a cat nuzzling its owner, marking its person as “mine.” His tongue came out to play but only because his tongue had never really gone back in since their first kiss. He made his way to that red flushed tip, put the whole thing inside and sucked on it like he had Draco’s nipples, he covered Draco’s slit with his tongue and could feel the thick salty liquid pump into his mouth with his own heartbeat. He used one hand to press back the trembling thighs, and the other to cradle both Draco’s bollocks and the base of his cock steady. He couldn’t stay there for too long though, his own cock was an iron bar of need. So he was moving on, moving down and before he knew it he was licking and sucking at Draco’s bollocks. Humming against them in answer to Draco’s now constant grunts broken only by the occasional whimper of pleasure.

Then he was moving beneath the full balls, furred lightly with soft peach fuzz, kissing and sucking inside whatever was under his mouth, then releasing it again slick with saliva and a wet pop. If there was thought in Harry’s head it was simply this: cocks go in arses, arses need to be open for cocks to get in them. That thought circled round and round, while he licked and moved and pressed and nudged. He got Draco’s hips up and a pillow beneath them, got his own face centered down between his legs while he considered the problem of cocks and arses, mouth a constant source of motion all between Draco’s thighs and up and down his rigid dick, around the tight round walnuts of his balls and back again.

And then finally he slipped in all the wet he’d helped to make and his tongue wasn’t just pressing behind Draco’s bollocks, but sliding its way between his arsecheeks and down to his hole, landing its way straight there at the center, the tip of his tongue accidentally sinking in just that little bit so it caught on the rim when he pulled out. He would have retreated burn shy and disgusted if not for Draco’s reaction. The loudest moan yet, high and shrill and ending on a whimper, poured from his mouth. His body thrust up hard and there was that undulation again, every muscle working together to roll him against Harry.

So really, there was nothing for it. If Harry was going to do this, if he was going to take advantage Draco better at least enjoy himself. Harry used both hands to grasp Draco’s arse cheeks, open them gently to expose the hole, and stuck his tongue in there as far as it would reach. His taste buds were deadened by now, overworked and overwhelmed, everything tasted the same, warm wet and salty, clean.

The cheeks of Draco’s arse were a cool contrast to the warmth of his hole. Draco wailed, fists no longer at Harry’s shoulders but now thumping against the bed. Hard. And with each press Harry found the hole would relax a fraction more, until it was throbbing against his mouth, opening and closing like a hungry little mouth. Nothing had ever made him this intense level of ready before in his life. If he could he would have just lay there and humped himself into orgasm, it only would have taken two humps. He was on his knees now because if his cock touched the bed he would be coming, penetration or no penetration. So instead Harry licked it open determinedly. It had to open; he had to get in there. They hadn’t done all this so he could come on the sheets.

Harry lapped at it, pressing more and more of his tongue in, pressing against the tight whirl trying to convince it to open. He pulled out and tested the rim by licking circles around it and then plunging back in. He slid through easy, gliding on his own spit. But a cock was not a tongue. Not fingers either but maybe that would be the next logical step, they were bigger than a tongue, smaller than his penis. He found his wand on the floor with all their clothes and used it to apply a generous coating of his wanking lubricant, made it wetter than spit could, and slid his fingers in until the resistance he felt was no longer vice tight. The sounds Draco was making all throughout this process could not be described, something between unending moans and hisses of climatic pleasure. Finally, Harry didn’t know if he was ready yet, but if he didn’t stick himself in now they were going to have to wait thirty minutes to try again. Harry slid all the way back on top, lining them back up again but this time with Draco’s thighs around his waist, his cock pointing downwards so that Draco’s hole was kissing it.

Draco’s own cock stood proudly between them, slapping gently against their bellies with each rock, and Harry’s only regret was that he couldn’t do this while sucking on it. His mouth felt empty. He rubbed himself against Draco’s hole. Pressed against there futilely, but no. It wasn’t going to work. Draco was too small. It was never going to fit. He was never going to make it in there. He was never --- Harry fell against him as he sunk all the way down. No one had ever told him it would be like this.

Arms wrapped around his neck, a nose burrowed behind his ear, legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck, Harry,” a voice moaned hoarsely. Harry’s hips pistoned, Draco was awake and he had no further excuse but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you awake,” he panted into the side of Draco’s face, their cheeks pressed together. “Did you wake up?”

“Oh god yes this is the best dream I’ve ever had,” Draco whispered back.

“Not a dream.” Harry let his hips show him how real it was. It was interesting, the more Draco woke up the quieter he got. Everything else was the same, his cock didn’t lose any of its rigidity, his legs remained wrapped around Harry helping his hips to tilt upwards at the perfect angle for Harry to thrust in, but the moans turned into soft grunts, the wails dissipated all together. Harry couldn’t stop but he also couldn’t go on if he thought Draco didn’t want this.

“Come on,” Harry grunted, “do you like this?”

“Yeah.” The answer was immediate and breathy.

“Yeah? Do you like it?”

“Yeah yeah yess yess please”

“Want more? Want me to fuck you more?” He rotated his hips, grinding down in a circle, needing him to talk, needing Draco to say or moan or do something. Draco’s head flew back, throat bared, arms wrapped so tight around Harry’s shoulders.

“Oh My God Harry, Fuck that feels Good.” Every other word was a capital. That worked pretty well.

“Harder?”

“No,” Draco sighed, “just deeper, do it deeper.”

Harry pulled back and pistoned down, angling up when he breached him so that this thrust was all pelvis. “Like that? Is that deep enough?”

Draco’s mouth dropped open on a silent wail.

“Come on come on, Draco, I’ve got you.”

Draco’s legs crossed tighter over Harry’s lower back, heels pressed into his arse. But no sound came from his throat, mouth still open and his eyes showed nothing but whites.

“You going to come?”

“Uhh”

“You going to come? Tell me, talk to me, I missed you talking to me.”

“Uhhh III--” Draco came first on a wordless yell, loud and long.

Harry followed, not so much climax as it was explosion.

* * *

“Neudul is having confession to make.”

Harry blinked awake, exhausted but completely satisfied in a way he hadn’t been…well, ever really. He was loose and comfortable with Draco curled around him happy and safe and he was sloth-like with content. Which was the only reason he didn’t die in a horribly messy and embarrassing way by throwing himself off Hagrid’s tower of a bed out of sheer shock. Neudul was sitting on his pillow.

“How long have you been there?”

Once his heart rate had de-escalated he tried not to let the words come out too accusing. He didn’t need the elf shouting and screaming and waking Draco.

“Not too long,” Neudul answered morosely. “Neudul is having confession to make to Mr. HarryPotter,” the elf repeated. “Neudul is bad elf.”

Harry was readying himself for Neudul to explain how terrible of an elf he’d been for letting the food remain on the floor to spoil.

He was not prepared at all to hear him confess in vivid detail how he loved Harry, thought he was terrific person, had heard such good things about him from Dobby only to meet him and realize Dobby’s stories paled in comparison to the true splendor that was HarryPotter. And then when he realized how sad this HarryPotter was, how much he was hurting, what great of a burden those other wizards had placed on him, why he couldn’t not help any way he could. But ironing his clothing, and presenting him with gifts to make him smile, those were small, those were short term, those weren’t enough. But he was an elf, and elves had power, he could do something better than clean, he could find someone worthy of shouldering the burden with HarryPotter. Someone who would understand. Someone HarryPotter could love back and share his secrets with and trust and who needed him and would be needed equally, a confidante like the elves found in each other. That’s what helped them get through, and it would help HarryPotter too. So he had used his magic, and he had found someone, but he hadn’t known who it would be and hadn’t known (couldn’t have known) there would be BadBlood. Then DracoMalfoy showed up and Neudul remembered DracoMalfoy from the stories though he hadn’t had the chance to work in the kitchens at the castle yet so he didn’t know him personally, but he could feel him, so he did know him. And he knew DracoMalfoy could be such a good person, if he tried. DracoMalfoy didn’t deserve the fate he got dealt so Neudul took it on himself to protect him, first by making it impossible for those who would wish him harm to find him and then by giving him HarryPotter. Because Neudul knew DracoMalfoy could be everything HarryPotter needed too. So when HarryPotter was faint from holding back his nausea, Neudul let a little more elf magic slip and made DracoMalfoy sleep. Just until Neudul could figure out what to do, how to make HarryPotter and DracoMalfoy see each other without their history. And that worked, HarryPotter talked without yelling and DracoMalfoy listened. For once. And then it was working, they were talking and listening without the sleeping spell but it wasn’t enough. Friends wouldn’t be enough to hold HarryPotter through, he needed more. He needed a Winky to his Dobby, but better because this Winky didn’t drink. So Neudul put his sleeping magic on an apple and gave it to DracoMalfoy to eat and Neudul hadn’t really lied, they really did need “…penetrative sexual relations--”

Harry could live his whole life without hearing another elf utter those words, he really could.

“Why did you decide to do this now? Draco and I were getting on, if we really are so perfect for each other we would have made it here all by ourselves anyway.”

Neudul’s head was so low his ears lay flat on the pillow and his words were muttered into his kneecaps. “The Great Hagrid is returning tomorrow at the time the sun rises and night is gone. There was being no more time for waiting.”

* * *

Draco lay there a few extra minutes after both Harry and the elf had left, hopefully to opposite sides of the planet because the way Harry looked ironing his ears was to be the least of Neudul’s worries.

Draco couldn’t help but have a soft spot of the little meddling creature, everything had worked out pretty damn well. Without him he’d still be wandering lost in other people’s backyards trying to evade Fenrir. Draco found Harry in the spot where they’d fed the Thestral the day before, which was fitting for what he was bracing himself to do. Draco was never more in need of bravery than in this very moment.

Harry didn’t look up as he sat down, but his shoulders tensed so Draco knew he had heard him.

“I heard what he said.”

Harry studied his ankles.

“The elf,” Draco elaborated.

“Pretending to be asleep again?” Harry asked one trouser-clad leg.

“You pick up some good information that way.”

“It was a trick.” Directed to the other one.

“Not all of it, not the way we felt.”

“He’s the one that called you here in the first place.” Now the ground beside his legs, a willow-wisp far away from home some sort of cross-breed Hagrid was meddling with.

“I know, I heard. Doesn’t matter, I was trying to find you anyway.”

“He was the one that made you fall into that sleep the first time around.”

“You wouldn’t have talked to me otherwise,” Draco reminded. “I wouldn’t have listened.”

Harry finally looked up, those gorgeous green eyes bright behind his hideous glasses. He looked at him straight on and Draco knew they were getting to the crux of the problem.

“And this last time,” Harry asked, whisper soft. “I raped you.”

There was a question mark at the end of that too, subtle but there.

And Draco knew he was asking how could he make that better.

“You can’t rape someone who freely gives their consent.”

“You didn’t.”

“I would have.” Draco allowed his hands to cup Harry’s face, allowed the honesty to pour through him like he never had before, met his eyes and willed his sincerity into Harry as if he could do a reverse legilimens.

“I always get screwed over when they try to help me,” Harry said after a long pause. “It never fails.”

“Never quite so literally, I hope.”

“This isn’t funny, Draco!” But Harry said it with a smile and more pout than anger in his voice and Draco knew he had won. A year ago he would have never have imagined winning against Potter being in the form of a smile. Now on to part two.

“I know this isn’t what you expected-- This whole summer, this has been. This whole year—I want to---no.” He cut himself off with a frustrated exhale. “Take me with you. Have faith in me. Trust me.”

“Take you with me?” Harry asked, honestly clearly puzzled. That hurt, that hurt that it hadn’t even been a consideration no matter how brief. But then again Draco did know Harry was as aware as a senseless carrot-stick.

“Yes, take me with you. However it came about, the elf is right. We could be good together. I know it, I feel it.”

“I can’t take you with me.”

“And you feel it too.”

“You didn’t want any part of this war. You’ve told me that.”

“I don’t. I still don’t but that decision was taken out of my hands the day I was born to Lucius Malfoy. Now all I can do is choose what side I fight on. My father told me that himself.”

“Excuse me for not being swayed by an argument your father came up with,” Harry muttered sullenly, the little below the wand-belt bullock-biting bastard.

Draco glowered. “Whether you like the man or not has no bearing on the likelihood of every choice he’s ever made being wrong. The law of percentages precludes the very notion, don’t be a complete arse because you’re confused, Potter. That tiny bit of respect I gained for you? Falling back into the negatives.”

Harry was silent and sunk his head back into his knees again. Clearly he was going to need a reason a little more persuasive. Something a little more honest, a little more humiliating the bleeding bastard. Draco looked down and prepared himself.

“I’m not willing to give up on this. I…love you.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why? I don’t understand…why would you…you love me? Why?”

Draco shrugged, at a loss for words. “Just because.” Because he had nothing else but he had that, he had Harry and sometimes he thought that could be enough. Because Neudul was right, Harry was everything he never knew he always needed, and now was the time he needed it most. Because he was sweet and generous and ornery as an ovulating blast-ended skrewt despite that, because he could make him laugh and wanted to, tried to. Because.

“One summer… Last year you couldn’t stand me. You hated everything about me, how can you go from that to this.”

“Last year I hated who I thought you were. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know who my father was. I didn’t know who I was.”

“No. You can’t, you can’t just…” Harry trailed off shaking his head, throwing his wreck of a hairstyle around his ears in tumbles of angry curls.

“Harry we made—“

“We had sex,” Harry corrected, his cheeks heating on the word ‘sex.’ Draco rolled his eyes; he was going to have trouble with arguments if he kept finding Potter adorable. He needed to work on that.

“Fine. We fucked. With emotion. How can that not phase you but this causes you to do a wobbly?”

“No one just decides to love another person like that,” Harry stubbornly insisted. He rolled to his feet, all grace and no klutz apparent for the first time that summer, his body finally adjusted to working with his new height.

“Look, this is how it works,” Harry said, all firey persuasion. And Draco just knew something unaccountably stupid was getting ready to come out of his mouth, packaged all pretty with pseudo-logic Potter-style. “My parents loved me because they loved each other and I was a part of that. It’s the same reason Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon adore Dudley. He’s theirs. Sirius loved me because of my dad, he saw him in me. Hermione and Ron we grew up together, and like Ron says getting nearly brained to death by a troll tends to draw people together. And even then half the time they don’t believe me or trust me. Ginny has always been fascinated by the legend of me . And Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, they just love kids, an orphan is probably their dream come true. But no one else…I hardly hear from Professor Lupin, and Professor Dumbledore …he needed me. You don’t just get to decide, that’s not how it works, Draco.

“You hate my legend, and short of giving you a place to hide out which you don’t need since Neudul’s decided to be your special friend you don’t need me for anything. You never knew my parents or care about---”

Just as he’d expected. Perfectly sensible, perfectly logical, perfectly idiotic.

“I love you because you’re you. That’s how love works,” Draco said. “You can trust me and let me prove that to you, or you can not. I don’t have anything else I can do to convince you, Harry.”

The silence lasted for too long, Harry wasn’t supposed to have to think about it. There was a little furrow between his brow, if he wasn’t careful soon it would be a permanent worry line. Draco touched there, smoothed it out carefully with a firm caress that trailed down over Harry’s forehead, down his cheek, and back to cup his neck in one hand, then he tugged gently until their mouths met in a kiss. Lips open slightly, tongues reaching out to touch, it was more comfort and affirmation than heat. A kiss because he could, a kiss to remind him how they could be together, a kiss because if this was the last they had Draco was going to make it good. A kiss to make Harry miss him. No one ever said Draco played fair. They broke away and Harry was breathing just that bit harder. It was gratifying. Harry averted his eyes, then looked back up quickly, determinedly. Apologetically.

“No one has ever trusted me just because. No one has ever given me that chance. If I’m wrong here I’m not the only one who will suffer for it.”

Draco closed his own and felt his heart freeze over, nothing so neat as breaking. They would have been great together, he knew it, maybe one day Harry would too. One day when blind trust wouldn’t mean losing so much if you lost the gamble. One day, after the war. Only Draco would always know there was a moment when he wasn’t good enough, and he’d always love him but he knew himself…there was no coming back from that. Not now after he’d risked everything and gave Harry his heart. And then in one instant, everything changed. In one motion. Harry reached for him and entwined their fingers.

“Please don’t make me wrong.”

Draco squeezed back. “Never.”

Then he snorted because they were still Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy and this summer was turning them both into girls.

“You do that well enough all on your own, Potter.”

Harry smiled slightly, nervously. “I need to find Horcruxes. That’s what I’m doing. It’s the only way to kill Voldemort and I’m the only one who can kill him. Come with me, Help me, be my non-alcoholic Winky.”

Draco laughed. “Only if you’ll be my Dobby.”

 

The End


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